If He Wasn't a Detective
by mk162rl8619
Summary: Sherlock and John wait tables, sell used cars (and rap), teach small children, chase tennis balls, watch cats, act in a kid's show and run x-rays. Each chapter independent. Mysterious connection between Moriarty and cats that even I don't understand. (This is ridiculous, but hopefully fun :)) Please review!
1. Elementary School Teachers

Standing before a classroom of wide-eyed seven-year-olds, a man with curly hair and piercing eyes paced back and forth. A quadratic equation sprawled across the whiteboard.

"Dull. How is it that you can't answer this problem, oh future of the country? You, third row, stop picking your nose. It's abhorrent."

"What's abren?" The child still had a finger up his nose.

"Ab-hor-rent." Sherlock muttered something under his breath. "It means revolting, disgusting, appalling- no? Why did my brother assign me to the idiots?"

"My mother says I'm smart." Another child raised its hand speaking at the same time. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back.

"Well then your mother is wrong." Sherlock ruffled his hair. "You're an idiot. No, no, don't be like that, most people are. Your mathematics session is over. Wait for your English teacher."

"We don't have an English teacher."

"What? John!" Sherlock rushed into the hall. John Watson was sitting on the carpet of the room across him, reading from a picture book. "When will the English teachers be coming to relieve us?"

"I-I don't think there are any." John looked around. "Excuse me, I'm reading. Do you mind?"

Sherlock ducked back into his room. To his horror, he found children out of their seats, rummaging through his things. Afraid they would find his cadavers, or worse, disturb his sock index, he shouted,

"Off! Sit down, or I'll report you all."

"We're bored." The children trudged back to their seats.

"No, _I'm_ bored. _ You_ are boring." Sherlock searched his desk for something to entertain them with. He found a couple Rubiks cubes and scattered them across the classroom. He took out a couple Newton's cradles. "If you stick these in your mouth, Father Christmas will literally burn your house down and die at the same time." Looking out at a crowd of horrified faces, he picked up his book. It was Isaac Newton's _Principia_. He began reading from it.

Across the hall, John was finishing up. "And then the little kitten finished its dish of milk. Yummy!" The door opened. Men in suits walked in.

"Hello?"

"We're the school inspection."

"Oh, right. Ok. So, class, what did the little kitty drink?" He held up the book, titled, _The Saucer of Milk_ with a smile. A kid in the third row shouted.

"Oranges." The class broke out into giggles, and the suited men frowned. In a few minutes they arrived in Sherlock's classroom.

Sherlock stood at the front of the class, reading from _Principia. _Children surrounded him, mesmerized by Rubiks cubes and Newton's cradles. No one looked up when they walked in. They walked out, amazed.

"Did you see that?"

"The man must be a genius!"

"With a class full of geniuses too!"

Sherlock was promoted and John was fired. Two days later, Sherlock was fired when a parent complained of their child being called an idiot and sued the school for three million pounds to cover the child's psychotherapy, which consisted of a vacation to Florida.


	2. Used Car Salesman Rappers

"Yes, I do believe that this is the perfect car for you." Sherlock tapped the Camry with a pen. "Complete neglect of fashion sensibilities, in need of a new coat of paint, and run down by overuse. Really, Mr. Carlton, I don't know why you would look any farther." Sherlock smiled at his reflection in the car window, ignoring the anger coming from the wizened mouth beside him. "Oh, look, you two have matching coffee-stains." He pointed a long finger inside the car, squinting. "Isn't it remarkable?"

From three spaces over, John Watson heard the conversation. He wasn't surprised when Mr. Carlton vanished in a haze of exhaust. He stared at Sherlock, who had yet to stop smiling.

"Having fun yet?"

"Starting to." Sherlock rubbed his hands together.

"Try to keep it down a little, maybe stop the smiling. The manager, remember? He'll think you're losing customers on purpose." John looked down at the paperwork on his clipboard, his brown eyes darting around, making sure no one could hear their conversation.

"So what if I lose them? I find them the perfect car. Them buying it is just a detail."

"Well, it's a bloody important one, so let's try and work on selling these cars, okay? Great." Pretending they had agreed, John spied his next appointment waiting under the overhang. It was a young woman with curly dark hair and wide eyes. He smiled.

"Hey."

Meanwhile a mechanic appeared. Bouncing over to Sherlock, he pointed a finger at him. Sherlock was leaning against an car, fiddling with the rearview mirror.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"It's an experiment."

"Well you're gonna have to stop because, that there is my car. I called it. I fixed those brakes so good it will run another thousand kilos at least." Sherlock grimaced.

"Well."

"Well what?"

"You fixed the brakes well." He rolled his eyes as the mechanic clenched his fists.

"You trying to make me sound stupid or something? You think you're so special in that big old coat? Do you?"

"When I see people like you, yes, I believe I do." Sherlock dodged a fist, and began running across the parking lot.

John had his back turned to the chaos behind him. As Sherlock jumped in front of moving cars, somersaulting over their hoods, continually glancing over his shoulder, John's eyes and ears remained fixed on his client.

"Do you ever get any free time?" He said. Behind him, Sherlock slammed into a headlight, shattering the casing. The mechanic charged after him.

"Yeah, I could walk your dogs for you. I love dogs. I would own one, but then I'd never have any free time because I'd always be walking dogs. Fish? Oh yeah, they're beautiful. Wonderful creatures, absolutely fascinating-oh, you meant sushi? Well sushi's great too. I know a lovely place, right up by Baker St-"

John found himself on the floor, a livid mechanic on top of him. Sherlock was standing inside the office smiling out at them. The manager poked his head out as John punched the mechanic in the face.

"John Watson, you're fired. No wonder your resume was so pathetic. You're going to have to go on sharing that flat forever."

John looked up, but the girl was gone. Steaming, he jabbed a finger at the mechanic.

"It wasn't my fault. This idiot and that one in your office are the ones who started it."

"Then you're all fired. I'll be suing you for the damage too, you hear?"

They spent the rest of the day sitting at the bus stop. John had to act as a buffer between Sherlock and the mechanic.

"I was thinking, maybe we're going about this the wrong way." John said, trying to ignore the elbow piercing his side. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"What do you suggest?"

"Well, I might not have mentioned it before but I'm a pretty fair rapper. Want to hear?"

"Do I?"

"Yes, yes you do. Ta." John stood up, straightening his green jacket.

"The name's John Watson I used to be a doctor,

but now I'm just fired and it would really rock to

Get hired once more, get myself off the floor.

I've never been so incredibly poor.

It might be 'cause of my homie Holmes.

who gets kicked out of restaurants and homes.

So now its my shot its my chance to show'm,

That Watson can rap and these games here are over." John stuck his hands in his pockets. "Well?"

"No. No, the grammar is atrocious." Sherlock waved his hand. John plopped down. The mechanic stared.

"Well I'd like to see you try, Sherlock. Let's see if you can rap."

"Of course I can rap."

"Prove it." John folded his hands and smiled.

"Alright." Sherlock stood up. Swinging his arms, he said.

"I can identify 243 types of tobacco ash.

I really need some cash." He sat down again. The mechanic guffawed.

When they arrived at Baker St., it was back to the drawing board.


	3. Waiters

Encased in a cheap button-down shirt, masked by an even cheaper vest, a man stood beside a table at Speedy's Café in downtown London. His hair was curly, his face long, and eyes the color of storm clouds. He clasped his hands behind his back, allowing his long fingers to dance. The notebook in his pocket remained unused. Sitting at the table were a couple, the man spherical and woman thin, but sagging.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, I will be serving you tonight. Would you like anything to drink?" The man grunted.

"Beer please." The waiter grimaced. Screwing up his face, he said.

"Really not a very good idea. Your wife is already considering a divorce, is now a good time to aggravate your genetic alcoholism? Might I suggest unsweetened tea?"

"Wha-" The man looked from his wife to Sherlock, his chins jiggling.

"Of course you could go for the coke light as well, but I find that carbonation often serves to increase stomach size." The sharp grey eyes darted around, slicing through the man's composure. "Of course, in your case it really doesn't make a difference. Another tip—let women order first, dates tend to go much better. Have we agreed on the tea? Excellent." Turning on his heels to face the woman, he said, "And you, madam?"

The man crumpled the napkin in his lap and threw it on the table. "As if we were staying after this. Where's the manager? Come on, Yvonne." The man squeezed out from the booth. The woman did not budge.

"I want to stay George. Speedy's is my favorite and it's our anniversary." To Sherlock, she said, "I'd like the tea as well." Sherlock bowed. Leaving George half in and half out of the booth, frozen, he continued on his round.

A teenage girl and her boyfriend were sitting near the front windows. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock approached them. He had been avoiding them for an hour in the hopes that they would leave.

"What is it you want?"

"Well, we were thinking of ordering food at some point today." The girl said, curling her hair around a finger. Sherlock glanced from her to the boy.

"How nice. You're treating him. Much nicer than any girl I've ever known. Tip—cough up and buy flowers for her next Valentine's Day."

"Wait, I'm not paying." The girl knitted her eyebrows at Sherlock, then the boy, whose skin was radiating enough to cook pancakes. Sherlock frowned, feigning confusion.

"Well he's certainly not. Oh, how embarrassing. No sign of a wallet in any of his pockets, an armband from an amusement park—expensive things, aren't they?—and look at him now, red as a tomato, probably about to explain himself." Sherlock clicked his tongue. "Shameful."

"Hey, who do you think you are, man?" Sherlock shrugged, and walked away.

As he left, John Watson ran up to the table, where the date was spiraling out of control.

"Now, hang on a sec, everybody calm down. If he doesn't have the money dump him, but could you please do it outside? Thank you. Yes, thank you very much." Walking up beside Sherlock, the eyes of half the restaurant on them, John glanced around and, turning his back to the crowd, said.

"Do you have to do that?" Sherlock shrugged.

"I was merely saving her some inconvenience." Raising a finger, John said.

"Just remember, Speedy's is the one paying our rent right now. If we lose another job, God knows what we'll do. Sherlock? Are you listening to me?" Sherlock walked away, humming. Carrying two glasses of iced tea, he swung by Yvonne and George's table, his spirits untouched by the smolder under George's mono-brow.

"And as for me I'd like a salad with dressing on the side." Leaning over John's shoulder, Sherlock said.

"Watching your weight I see. New boyfriend or just overly aware of your recent weight gain?" John elbowed him, but the damage was complete. The girl ran out, sobbing.

"Look, are you trying to put this place out of business? Can't you just keep to yourself."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm bored."

"Well, go be bored somewhere where you're not going to offend any customers."

"Hey, what's going on?" A broad, hunchbacked man came out from the back kitchen.

"Oh, hi Mr. Chatergee, we were just, um, waiting. That is waiting tables, of course." John flourished a towel.

"Why was that girl crying?" Mr. Chatergee frowned.

"Well, she just got a text that her gerbil died, and she's very upset you see."

"Are you lying to me, Mr. Watson?" Chatergee narrowed his eyes. John laughed.

"No, no, of course not. Why-why would you think I was lying to you? It's utterly absurd, I mean, yeah."

"Watch yourself, Watson."

"Yeah, right. I mean, of course. I'll just go, er, wait more tables!" John trotted away, glancing around, hoping Sherlock had not yet found his way into more trouble. He was no where to be seen. "Right. Tables."

Arriving at the kitchen counter to pick up his orders John frowned. Table thirteen had a salad. Looking over at the table, he spied a woman, her buttocks taking up well over half the booth sipping on a milkshake. He frowned at the salad. Something did not seem right. He bent down and looked into the kitchen.

"Excuse me, are you sure that this is the right order? Excuse me?"

"What? Yeah, its alright." The reply came through a clatter of dishware.

"Thank you." John looked down, still not certain. He picked up the plate and walked to table thirteen.

"Umm…Is this your order? I'm not sure." The woman looked up at him, then at the salad.

"What are you implying?"

"Umm-"

"I don't need a diet. It's because of men like you that the world is the way it is. Young girls starve themselves because of you. It's insulting and barbaric." She stood up, and with the full force of her flesh, began to whack him with her purse. The salad clattered to the floor. Eyes turned.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"You'd better be sorry, scum. It's not my fault I'm so fat. It's genetic. Genetic, do you hear? Who are you to judge? You bastard." Watson had his arms up, and, cowering the best he could, fell into a table, knocking down a vase and flipping a soup plate onto a businessman's Westwood suit.

"I'm sorry, I am so incredibly sorry." Mr. Chatergee burst forward, as if appearing out of thin air.

"Watson, I knew it. I knew it was you. You and your creepy friend are fired."

Mr. Chatergee pushed the woman aside with some difficulty, grabbed John's collar, and dragged him outside, dumping him on the stair. Sherlock was standing on the steps, hands in the pocket of a long coat he had put on over his shirt. The apron and vest were on the concrete, gathering dirt.

"How did you know already?" John pulled his vest and apron off, throwing them at the door.

"Once I perceived the woman's reaction to my diet plan for her, I decided it was best to give up whilst I was ahead." Sherlock began to walk toward the door of 221 B Baker Street. John trotted after him.

"You-it was you?"

"Does that surprise you?"

"Do you try to get us fired, Sherlock? I mean, waiting tables, how can you mess up waiting tables?" Sherlock looked at him.

"Don't make people into waiters, John." He entered the apartment. John shook his head and followed.


	4. X-ray Techs

He pushed the x-ray machine around with some difficulty. Despite his protests, the doctors had insisted that he wear his coat beneath his scrubs. It was unnatural. The heavy fabric bunched up between the papery legs and the way the shirt smothered the opening to the coat made him feel fat. After chipping some crown molding off the corner and upsetting a tray of blood samples, he rolled the portable into a room in the emergency department and sighed.

"Why we still use these things is a mystery to me. They are absolutely archaic." He whacked the machine with a plastic glove.

"Hi, Mr. Tannis. How are you today?" John smiled. An old man leaned over, clutching his stomach. An old woman stood beside him, patting his shoulder.

"There, there Toddy, it's going to be alright. He's doing awful." John nodded. Choking, Toddy spit out,

"I'm not feeling quite well." Spinning around with a smile, Sherlock said,

"Of course he's not feeling well. His wife's a vegetarian and he just had meat for the first time in eighteen years."

"Toddy!" She slapped him

"Marta, I can explain, Marta."

"What appalls me, Mr. Tannis is that you don't regret wasting the funds of England. Because of your dietary irregularities, the future of your children is being drowned in x-ray films and salaries."

"We don't have children." Marta stared at Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow.

"You don't. Goodday Mrs. Tannis."

"But what about my x-ray?"

"We can wait." Sherlock pushed the cart out. Marta began beating on Toddy and screaming. John stood, dazed as security poured into the room. Coming to himself, he stormed out after Sherlock. He's natched away the order forms.

"Oh no, we are not doing this again. You better let me do the talking. I'm better at relating to patients."

"You're a doctor. There's nothing farther from being a patient." Sherlock smirked.

"You've lost us the last, God-knows-how-many jobs. Try not to be a smart-ass."

"I'll just be myself." Sherlock continued down the hall.

"Are you listening to me?" The patient, a frail old woman with varicose veins stared at Sherlock and John with a frown. Sherlock would have to be careful.

"Hello Ms..." John paused a smile slapped on his face as he stared at half the alphabet jumbled together with far too few vowels.

"Zbratskini." She leered up at them.

"Is that Russian?" She growled.

"Polish, John." Shelock clicked his tongue. Ms. Zbranskini purred.

"This is the filthiest hospital I've ever been in."

"Oh, have you been to many?" John still smiled. He was beginning to feel stupid.

"Of course she has. Just look at the scars on her legs. You don't get those from gardening. Can't even get them from cats. And I quite agree Ms. Zbranskini, the state of the toilet is appalling." John looked around in confusion.

"That's right sonny. As for the surgeries." The old woman displayed her knobbly knees. "Doctors like you have screwed me over my whole life." She pointed a finger at John.

"Hey, how did you know-"

"She's a sharp one." John met the double smirk of icy young and glittering old grey eyes and felt the knife of fear. Sherlock picked up the x-ray plate, and covering it with a pillowcase, said,

"It's going to awfully uncomfortable. And the doctor is an alcoholic having an affair with his wife, so..."

"I expected as much." She bared her teeth.

"Give me that." John took the plate from Sherlock, not trusting him. "Shut your mouth, John. Take it from a woman, stupidity is unattractive. Let the smart one take it. Yes, you darling." She bared her teeth again. John stared.

"No, I'm the doctor here."

"You're the alcoholic. I knew it." She sat up.

"Ms. Zibberzabbersky please just let me take the x-ray-"

"Never!"

"Want to give it to me, John?"

"No, no. No. This is my job, I know how to do it, for God's sake, this is what I spent those eight years doing."

"Becoming an x-ray tech?" Sherlock frowned.

"He was in prison. He's an alcoholic and a convict. And a doctor. Help!" Ms. Zbranskini continued to scream. Sherlock kept saying,

"All this time I thought you were a doctor, and you were an x-ray tech. You've lied to me, John."

"I am a doctor. Goddamn it, Sherlock, I'm just trying to shoot an x-ray for Ms. Zibberzabensky."

"A cursing, alcoholic, convict doctor! Security!"

"Let me shoot it."

"An x-ray tech?"

"Security! He's going to shoot someone."

"An x-ray tech?"

As security stormed into the room a call came over the loudspeaker.

"Code Silver. Armed threat on the premises. Code Silver!"

"I can't believe that all this time I thought you were a doctor and you were actually just an x-ray tech." Just as the hospital's manager walked in with the head of police John shouted,

"I am not an x-ray tech, I have never even been trained, I just want to shoot the damn thing."

He spent the night at the jail next to Marta. When he arrived home, tear-stains on his shoulder, Sherlock was sleeping on the couch.

"Why aren't you at work? You didn't get arrested!"

"Didn't like it much. Fancy a biscuit?"


	5. Cat Daycare Owners

"I detest cats." Sherlock, behind the counter of _Happy Cat's Pet Daycare_ picked up a small kitten by the scruff of its neck with two fingers, and set it down in a playpen. He brushed a hair off his coat.

"Why? Are you, um allergic?" John said, arms full of fluffy kittens. He dumped them into the playpen. Sherlock glared.

"No." He looked down at the kittens, not moving his head. They mewed, looking up at him with shimmering brown eyes. John frowned.

"Are you afraid?"

"What? Of course not, don't be absurd." A smile spreading across his face, John said.

"I do believe you are. Sherlock Holmes, afraid of kittens."

"Kittens have vicious claws and would impale you, if given the chance. Thank God evolution forgot the opposable thumbs."

"For God's sake Sherlock, they're just kittens." John laughed.

"They are the animal of the devil." Sherlock eyed the kittens, who were rolling on their backs, paws in the air. One of them yawned, extending a paw towards Sherlock. He shuddered.

"Well, I think he likes you. Hello there." John reached a hand into the playpen. Claws launched themselves at his bare hand. "Ow!" With some difficulty, he pulled his hand back. "Stupid cat." He went behind the counter.

"See, dangerous. Look at him, sitting there, plotting." Sherlock looked down into the wide brown eyes, wrinkling his nose. John opened drawers and cabinets, shuffling papers.

"Sherlock." He kept shuffling. "Sherlock, where are the bandaids?"

"Used them all." John muttered a curse.

"What on earth could you have used them for?"

"Protection." John took a closer look at Sherlock's hands. They were covered in bandaids.

"You've been scratched that many times already?"

"No. Just taking precautions." John stared. He stormed out of the room. The kittens purred.

Sherlock sat in a chair. Haunted by the kitten wonderland, he took refuge in his mind palace.

"Sherlock, don't move." Sherlock opened his eyes. John was staring at him, a plastic bag in his hand. He felt heavy. He started to shift, when what felt like a thousand needles dug into his skin.

"Ow-"

"Don't move." John set the bag on the table, and, speaking in a whisper said, "You, my friend, are literally covered in kittens."

"How?" Sherlock's mouth moved, but nothing but air came out.

"Don't ask me, I was out buying band-aids."

"Get them off, John. I told you they were plotting." His voice raised.

"How could they be plotting, they're just kittens." The kitten on top of Sherlock's head, the one with the wide brown eyes mewed. Just then, a woman walked in with a Rottweiler.

"Do you boys take care of dogs too?"

"That's a Rottweiler." John said.

"Well, a Rottweiler is a type of dog you know. My husband says it's more like a lion really. For some reason, we're having a hard time getting daycare arrangements." The lion roared, causing the cats to go wild. They squirmed all over Sherlock, yelping when they got caught in his coat. Between Sherlock's yelps, John tried to talk to the woman.

"Can you take your dog out, please?" The kittens scattered, half of them still clinging to Sherlock and half disappearing into different corners. The Rottweiler dragged the woman towards Sherlock.

"No, no, bad Timmy. Stop it Timmy, you don't want these nice gentlemen to turn us away like the last ones did. Timmy!" The Rottweiler dragged her across the room. John chased it. Sherlock was paralyzed. The brown eyed kitten nestled in his hair and mewed. It surveyed the scene with content. It hissed at the Rottweiler.

Curling its tail in midair, baring its teeth, the kitten crooned. Sherlock moaned. It looked at John and smirked.

"I can see it. My God, you're right. It's an evil kitten." John pointed the Rottweiler at the kitten. The kitten hissed and the Rottweiler whimpered. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, run."

"I don't know where to run, John. I can't escape myself."

"Throw the damn cat at the wall and run. Now." Not waiting for Sherlock, John seized the cat from his head. He felt a menacing gurgle in it's stomach. He was about to throw it when his arm froze. He traced the hairy knuckles clamped on his forearm to a bald head.

"My cat. Do not throw." He snatched the cat. Rather than stroke it, he set it on the ground. It licked it's paw. "Mr. Moriarty will be back tomorrow. Do not throw him then either." He ambled out, following the cat. John and Sherlock looked at each other. They ran out the back door, leaving the woman alone in a room of confused cats.

"But what about Timmy?"


	6. Tennis Ball Chasers

The tennis ball face-planted into the net. John scrambled up from the sidelines of the Wimbledon final, clad in highwaisted shorts that came up to halfway up his thighs. A magenta visor shaded his face. After grabbing the tennis ball, he scurried back. He waited.

The next serve went long. He was right about to pick it up when Sherlock snatched it out of his hands. A hostile feeling rising in him, he said,

"Sherlock, this is my side of the court."

"Your point?" Sherlock threw the tennis ball up and caught it while retreating. John frowned.

The next ball landed in the alley closest to Sherlock. John made a grab for it but Sherlock was too quick for him.

"Are you going to give me the ball? The sides aren't equal now."

"I fail to see why I should. You're a doctor, you believe in Darwin."

"What?" John squinted.

"Survival of the fittest. You clearly are not a fit tennis-ball-retriever."

"I am too a fit tennis ball retriever."

"Not fit enough. Besides, I'm catching balls for the Slovaks."

"So? I'm catching them for the English." Sherlock sighed, looking up at the sky.

"Dull." They parted ways with the incoming serve. It was an ace for the Slovakian.

"Hurrah!" Sherlock thrust his arm in the air. There was silence on the court as British fans glowered. The Slovak's mother and sister sat in the stands with a cheap flag. His father was there, but sleeping. The next serve was in, but the Englishman returned it to the far corner, out of the Slovakian's reach.

"Come on! Wooh!" John clapped, grinning at Sherlock from beneath his magenta shield. Sherlock fumed.

"Stupid. What are you looking at, no, don't answer I doubt you'd be capable of forming a sentence." Sherlock said to a fellow ball-retriever. In the meantime, the referee called the Slovakian's serve out.

"What's the matter, are you blind? You look, but you don't observe. That ball was clearly within the boundaries. The speed plus the angle and the wind, it had to have been in. Are you an idiot or something?"

"Someone call security." The referee said into his microphone.

By this time, the Slovakian tennis player realized what was going on.

"My serve...It was not out no?"

"These abyssmally moronic officials say it was." Sherlock said, jabbing a finger at the head referee. After a moment of contemplation, the Slovak said,

"But it was not."

"I know. They don't see it." Sherlock shook his head. The Slovak pointed towards the incoming security guards.

"What are they?"

"They want to take me away."

"But you see it, no?"

"I'm the only one on this court full of halfwits." The Slovakian shielded Sherlock.

"Stop. You may not take him. He is my witness." The guard shook his head and said,

"Sir, for the integrity of the game-"

"How dare you speak of integrity when you lie about tennis, stole an extra sample at the coffee store this morning and cheated on your sixth grade pre-algebra test?" The guard turned red.

"You're a bloody liar."

"My witness is my child you can't take him," the Slovak puffed out his chest. Sherlock frowned.

"He means I'm like his child."

"Sherlock, what the devil is going on?" John began to walk towards the net.

"For the honor of our country, you cannot speak." The Slovak stepped between John and Sherlock.

"He's British." John threw up his hands.

"But he has the heart of a Russian." The Slovakian posed, racket over his heart. John frowned.

"Aren't you, um, Slovakian?"

"Well you see one of my grandparents was Slovakian, I play for Slovakians, but we're Russians." He gestured towards Sherlock and himself. "We see." The Slovakian-Russian pointed at his eyes.

"Oy, the tennis player's a Russian. They're imposters. Infringing on our courts, thats what these here clowns are doing." The English player said. He launched a tennis ball at them. It hit the Russlovak. Order went to hell.

"Run, brother." Sherlock took off. John followed.

"Why did you let that happen?"

"Bored."

"You've probably ruined your friend's career. He be banned from the sport." John trotted to keep up.

"I doubt that." Sherlock nodded to a homeless man outside the courts and handed him a ten pound note.

"Sherlock, we need that."

"Do we?" Sherlock smirked. John knitted his eyebrows.

A week later, a package came from .

"What's that?" John gaped at the stack of bills and golden medal pinned to what looked like a small animal. There was no note. "Where did that come from?"

"My spirit brother. He is actually brother of the head of the Russian Mafia." Sherlock picked up the small animal. It was a hat. He put it on.

"What's the medal then?"

"Probably stolen." Sherlock counted his notes with a smile.

"How did you know about it?"

"Homeless network. Tell you everything if you ask the right questions. Now excuse me I have work to do for the motherland." Patting the top of his hat he stuffed the notes in his wallet. "Dasvedanya."

"Which motherland?" John called out after him. No reply.


	7. Flight Attendants

"Businessman. Boring. Vacation. Didn't research properly going to have an awful time. Why are you just standing there, looking like idiots? Next?" Sherlock swiped boarding passes beneath the scanner. An old woman came up with far too many bags.

"Can you read?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Letters? Words? Measurements? Or is it a counting problem? All the flights on this airline specify one carry-on and one personal item per traveler. No split personalities do not count as separate people, thank you very much."

"Better let me handle this one Sherlock." John pushed Sherlock to the side and began taking passes. Sherlock tried to stick his hands in his suit pocket and found none.

"Pockets, John, why haven't they given us pockets?"

"Have a good flight. Yes, the bathrooms are around the corner." When the travelers were all on the plane Sherlock sighed.

"That was tedious."

"Wait until we get on the plane."

"Why are we doing this again? I don't want to go to Paris, I've never wanted to go to Paris, Paris is dull." Sherlock frowned. "Oh. Money I forgot. You like to eat."

"So do you." They boarded the plane. It was time for the safety demonstration. It was Sherlock's turn to narrate. John was pantomiming in the aisle.

"Yes, so don't be an idiot, wear your seatbelt." John pointed from side to side. "In the event of a plane crash we do like to be able to identify the bodies. And in the unlikely event of a dramatic pressure change in the cabin, there will be oxygen masks for the survivors." John put his hand over his mouth and tightened imaginary straps. "There are eight exits, I forget where exactly, oh maybe that's what the huge red lights that say 'Exit' are for. In the unlikely event of you being a skittish person and planning on surviving a traumatic plane crash, please don't sit in the exit seats. We'd hate to kill anyone lucky enough to be alive." John used two fingers to point to the doors, grinning to compensate for Sherlock's commentary. "This is a new model from Boeing, so while we don't have that many recorded crashes, we don't have very many recorded successes either." John shrugged with a chuckle. The passengers did not look reassured.

"Dear God." He said through clenched teeth. A baby began to cry.

"Please turn off all electronic devices and small children. And don't smoke. If I have to suffer, you should too." A click. There was silence aboard the plane. The baby had heard the message. John nodded and saluted the crowd.

"Okay, next time that's my job too."

"You're leaving me very few jobs to do."

"I don't know, you can pass out crackers or something." Sherlock shrugged. John shook his head.

Half an hour later, the plane barely lifted into the air, Sherlock was moaning.

"I'm bored, John. This is so boring. How do people sit here for hours?"

"Relax, Sherlock, it's only a couple hours to London. Think of how long I had to fly to Afghanistan."

"You were trained for that. Besides, your mind is so placid a year could pass before you realized the emptiness." Sherlock sunk his head in his hands, nearly crying.

"Here, pass out some crackers." John handed him a large plastic bin. Sherlock seized it. He stood up, and began making his way down the rows. John stared after him, surprised. He was doing an excellent job.

"You want water? Thank you so much, finally an individual, a break in the monotony. And you, you want vodka? Excellent, just brilliant." Sherlock nearly skipped to the drink cart. He poured a glass of water and took out a small vial of vodka. He handed it to the passengers with a smile. In ten minutes, he was sitting next to John again, mission complete. After two minutes,

"God, John, this is so boring. How do you expect me to survive this ordeal?"

"You could, er, clean up trash or something."

"What a novel idea." Sherlock seized a plastic bag and began skipping up and down the rows. Unfortunately, cleaning up was much faster than passing out, so within five minutes of that, he was crying again.

"John, what am I going to do, this is so unbelievably dull." He snapped his head up and turned to John. "I just took their trash."

"Yes." John nodded.

"So that means they don't have any crackers left, because I just took their trash."

"Yes, I suppose. Where are you going with this?"

"Isn't it obvious? They need more." Sherlock jumped up and grabbed the bin.

"But Sherlock, they're only supposed to get one round on such short flights."

"You're a miser, John." Sherlock began distributing crackers again. John shook his head. After the third time, Sherlock, bored of passing out crackers began to pass out vodka and whiskey. "Much funnier," was his comment. When the plane landed, half the passengers threw up. The airline manager came aboard to see what all the fuss was about, and once he discovered the depleted alcohol and cracker stores, fired both John and Sherlock. They paid for their ride home with their salary from the ride there.

"On the whole a pointless exercise John, I don't know why you insisted upon it."


	8. Kid's Show Actors

*recommended that you read at least _Elementary School Teachers _and _Cat Day-Care Owners first. _Also, if you're following this story, I am not abandoning it, I'm just not going to be able to update for a few days. This one's a little weird, but please review! Even if you don't like it, tell me what you think.

Three men sat in a room, hunched over a table. One of the men had dark curly hair and a tight and shimmering purple shirt and another had cropped grey hair and an ugly green jacket. The final man had slicked back, dark hair, a high forehead, deep round eyes and breath-taking eyebrows. This final man spread his hands out.

"Well, boys welcome to show business. I can't wait to show you what I have going on out here in the big bad world." He grinned and cracked his gum. He leaned over, his fingers interlaced. "How would you like to begin with," he shuffled through a stack of scripts, "_Hansel and Gretel_? Classic children's tale you know. I love fairy tales." He looked up with a smile that neither of the "boys" trusted.

"I'm not well acquainted with it." Sherlock frowned.

"Well, we could give it a go I suppose. But, er, who's going to be Hansel and who's going to be Gretel?" John said. He was, of course, the man with the ugly jacket. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock flipped through the script and threw it on the table.

"I'm certainly not going to play a little girl or her moronic brother. Can you imagine? Breadcrumbs? Biodegradable, considered food by at least half the woodland food chain, it's impossible. Give us another."

"Oooh, touchy I see. Well, maybe you have a point. However, I also have a point." Jim, The Spider, as he was known in showbiz, leaned back in his chair.

"What's your point?" John asked.

"You need money. I have a way for you to make money fast. I'm the man you need."

"You're not a man at all, you're a spider. At the center of a cinematic web pulling a thousand strings and knowing specifically how each one dances. You can do better than a washed up children's tale." Sherlock said, leaning forward. Jim laughed.

"Very good." He bugged out his eyes. "How about..._The Saucer of Milk_? It's a classic."

"I have history with that book." John nodded at it, rather uncomfortable, an elementary school looming before his eyes.

"I have an aversion to cats."

"Do you? I love cats. Oh well." He dropped _The Saucer of Milk_ on the table. Brushing off his Westwood suit, he stood up and began pacing.

"Of course, you two realize that I won't be able to offer you anything but _The Saucer of Milk_?"

"What? That's outrageous." Sherlock leaped up. Jim put his hands in the air.

"Take it or leave it." He smiled.

"We'll take it." John said. Sherlock fumed.

"I knew you'd agree. See you later boys. You'll meet your co-star in a few moments." Jim walked out. He paused in the threshold. "Of course, you'll be reading everything cold on a teleprompter. But that's just how these things go. John, you're the saucer. Sherlock, you're the owner. Bye." He raised his eyebrows and left. Sherlock looked at John. What had they signed up for?

A few hours later, they were in the make-up room. Sherlock had an apron on, and they were giving him false eyelashes.

"He didn't tell me the owner was a woman." Sherlock glared at John, who had white powder on his face and was sitting in a large white inner-tube. "You look revolting."

"You too."

"Alright, get on set everyone, Mr. 'Olmes, Watson, everyone."

"Who's our costar?" No reply. John waddled out in his inner-tube and sat center stage. The cameras began rolling. He smiled.

"'There was once a small kitten, he fit in a mitten. And his, er, favorite drink in the world was milk'." Sherlock made his entrance, his face paler than John's, one of his eyelashes falling off.

"'And the kitten would purr and the kitten would stir that drink of the gods, soft as silk.' Revolting rhymes, what trash are they giving kids today." Sherlock spun around in a lanky circle. "'Oh, Mr. M., come to dinner, you're such a winner, we have milk for you to drink."

"'I vant to take it, you'll never make it, you two are dinner I think.'"

"Those aren't the words-" John waddled around in his inner-tube confused as a giant white fluffy cat appeared. It looked out with wide brown eyes. "Oh, God, Sherlock he's back. The cat's back." John and Sherlock bolted off-stage in their strange attire.

Needless to say the show was a smash hit, save for the few sensitive souls that it traumatized. They wanted to make a sequel titled _Oranges, _but they had to get replacement saucers and owners, and it just wasn't the same.


	9. DJs

John had fallen asleep leaning up against Sherlock's turntables. The room was dark, John had been up for more than twenty-four hours, and the sounds coming from DJ Sherlock's soundtrack were not the sounds of a party from the 21st century. Or the 20th century, or the 19th century, maybe 18th century was right, but 17th century, John had a feeling was more accurate. The sound system screeched and jolted John from his slumber. Looking around the empty dancefloor, John hissed.

"What are you doing?"

"Educating." Sherlock waved his hands back and forth.

"You can't play that crap here, Sherlock. You're going to bore people to death." John stood up. Sherlock snapped his head to look at John.

"It isn't crap. It's Handel's seventh etude in F minor."

"You're just lucky this discotheque is empty right now. If there were any customers, they'd cry." John squinted at the clock. "It's not usually empty at two-thirty."

Sherlock shrugged. "I think people were feeling rather tired today. They all left within minutes of you stepping down. It was an amazing phenomenon."

"Sherlock, you have to play something reasonable. Sherlock? Are you listening to me?" Handel's etude crescendoed. John stared out over the empty dance floor. He went down to the bar and had a drink with the bartender.

The next night was John's turn. Dressed in a button-down plaid shirt and a pair of ripped jeans he blasted a lovely mix of New Wave, hip-hop and dubstep. Sherlock sat in the corner, arms crossed, looking displeased.

"Filth." He said. He stuffed his fingers in his ears and snarled. John shrugged, gesturing

"I get the customers, Sherlock."

"I will not sacrifice my musical expertise for the whims of the populace John, is that okay?" Sherlock crossed his arms. John swung around.

"No, no, it's not okay!" John leaned towards him. "You don't understand do you? This can't be a functioning discotheque half the time, we'll lose our customers."

"Why don't we post a schedule?" Sherlock stood up and stalked off. John stared after him.

The next day, a notice was posted on the door. It read

"DJ Sherlock will be djaying tonight. If you don't like it go away and invite some more tasteful people. The idiot John will be back tomorrow."

The discotheque was empty at eleven. Sherlock frowned. He took off his headphones and marched over to the telephone.

"Yes, yes, I think they will enjoy it immensely. No don't invite those ones they'll complain its not live. Yes. Of course. Okay. Do me a favor and invite a news crew too." Sherlock dropped the receiver back into its bed and rubbed his hands together, resuming his place as the lord of classical music.

"Who was that?" John asked. Sherlock glanced at him.

"You will see."

Within fifteen minutes, vans started piling up in the parking lot, bearing the label, "Sunnyville Retirement Homes." John gaped as the dance floor filled with waltzes. Within ten minutes, it was packed. Sherlock grinned. A news van pulled up.

"All thanks to the marvelous human being Sherlock Holmes, the elderly of our nation our being provided with entertainment. It is remarkable that such a young man would do such a kind thing." A blonde news reporter wiped away a genuine tear. "What do you have to say about it?" She stuffed the microphone in an old man's face.

"This here is good stuff it is. Just like when I was younger, my grandmother would play it. Learned it on the piano too. Gooood stuff. Though I think this version of Vivaldi's somewhat different from my day."

"And what do you have to say about it?" The reporter gave John a dirty look.

"Well, I...I mean...What the-" She snatched the microphone away, flipping her hair. John turned to Sherlock. Sherlock flashed him a wad full of cash. John's eyes widened. Sherlock shrugged.

That night, they were watching the playback of the news report. In the middle of an interview with an ex-cat lady, there was a newsflash.

"Infamous Russian gangster, Nikolay Ivanov has just broken out of where he was being held at Pentonville prison. Police suspect that he was given a code of sorts somehow through tonight's media." Sherlock jumped up and turned off the television. John stared.

"Hang on a sec, I wanted to see. Something about a code, I wonder how anyone could have transmitted a-hang on. Sherlock?" John looked around.

Sherlock was counting the notes in his wallet while speaking into his cellphone.

"Sounds great Nikolka. Any time. Sorry it took so long, the BBC is awfully difficult to break into with Vivaldi." He saw John staring at him. He hunched over his cellphone and money and slunk into the back room.


End file.
